


Body and Soul

by Penknife



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe: Some People Live/Not Everybody Dies, Bondage, Coerced into Honeypot Missions by Employer, Established Relationship, F/M, Gunplay, Knifeplay, Past DubCon, Post-Rogue One, Protectiveness, Trauma Reenactment Roleplay, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-11-19 08:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: Cassian tells Jyn that he's fine. He's not sure whether he wants her to believe it.





	Body and Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> Written for Rubynye as a treat in Smutswap 2019.

When he gets back from the mission, Cassian’s plan is to avoid Jyn until his bruised face has healed. It’s not actually a good plan, as evidenced by the fact that after he dodges her for the better part of a day, she simply lets herself into his quarters—the Alliance does not have good locks—and is there waiting for him when he comes in.

He’s tired, and his leg aches, and this isn’t something that he was prepared to handle tonight. They've been sleeping together, but not every night, so he didn't think passing on that for a few days would be too suspicious. “Don’t tell me you got lost.” 

Jyn looks him up and down, which is enough to make his skin prickle. He is not in a good place for this conversation right now, and yet it’s hard for him to actually want her to leave, because he also isn’t in a good place to be alone. “What happened to you?” 

“Someone hit me,” he says, the most obvious answer.

She frowns skeptically. “And you’ve been avoiding me because you got in a fight?”

“I did not get in a fight,” he says, because his desire for her to understand so that she’ll stop talking about this is abruptly stronger than his desire for her not to understand at all.

“What did you do?” She reaches to turn his bruised cheek toward her, and he evades the touch.

“I got the information from my contact.” 

“What did he want?” He thinks she understands, now, so he’s not sure why she has to ask.

He tells her, because if she didn’t want to hear it, she shouldn’t have asked. “To have me handcuffed on my knees. To slap me around. To make me suck him off, and then to put the barrel of his blaster in my mouth like it was his—“

“You’re not all right,” she says, and once again he evades her touch.

“I’m fine. I’ve done this often enough,” he says. 

“How many times?” 

“Enough.” 

“That’s right,” she says fiercely. “You’ve done this enough. Tell Draven you’re done.” 

“Tell him to send me on a combat mission when I can’t run?” He’s spent time in a bacta tank, but he still walks with a limp, and still can’t run flat-out without stumbling or falling. He doesn’t know if that’s permanent, and it’s hard to think about that question, so he hasn’t been thinking about it.

“Tell him you’re done with missions like this. No one can do things forever that use you up the way he’s using you up. Pilots don’t. They either die, or they burn out and get reassigned. Tell Draven to find you something else to do.” 

“I’m good at this.” It’s one of the things he’s sure he can still do well.

“And it tears you apart.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, because he has to stay in this fight, and if he can’t handle this kind of mission either, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He needs to get his head back together, that’s all. 

“You didn’t want this.” 

“Of course I didn’t,” he says. “It’s the job.” 

She sounds like she’s trying to figure him out. Good luck with that. “You have a hard-on right now, telling me about it.” 

“I get like this,” he says. “Afterwards. I get … wound up. It’s fine.” 

“You’re fine.” 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, and smiles, an expression he’s afraid is entirely without humor. 

“You’re not hurt.” 

“I’m not hurt.” It’s easy to say. 

“Then prove it,” Jyn says, and extracts a set of binder cuffs from his own jacket pocket. He lets her, unsure where she’s going with this.

“What am I proving?” 

She circles around behind him. “That these missions aren’t hurting you.” 

“They aren’t,” he says, and she snaps the shackles on his wrists. This is the worst way to be handcuffed, hands behind him, and he twists against her grip, fighting the cuffs. He needs to be still, and he can’t be still. “This is fine.”

“Even if you’re on your knees?” she says, and he drops to his knees. It sends a shock of pain through his leg, but that’s not what’s making his heart race and his breath come fast and shallow.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,” he says. In answer, she draws her blaster and lets him see her set it on stun. Knowing that only helps a little when she presses the muzzle to his chest. He lifts it deliberately and presses it under his chin instead, and after a moment’s hesitation she holds it on him that way, forcing his chin up. He shivers, and he can’t entirely blame it on the room being cold.

She lifts the muzzle to his lips, and he flinches at the touch of the cold metal, jerking his own weight back onto his heels. “Don’t,” he says, and then, “don’t. _Don’t_.” He’s fighting the cuffs again, and he can’t stop, and then she’s on her knees behind him, snapping the shackles off his wrists. It’s a sudden dizzying absence, like being cut loose to fall through space. He can hear his own breathing, as ragged as sobs.

“I’ve got you,” Jyn says, rubbing circles on his back in a way that should be comforting but can’t reach him right now. 

“I need to come,” he says flatly. “If you stop pushing me, I won’t be able to right now.” He’s used to that frustration, but right now it feels like another thing that he is abruptly, inexplicably, saying no to. He doesn’t want that. 

“I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself if I put these back on you,” Jyn says, the cuffs dangling from her fingers, and his shoulders are already protesting the strain he’s put them under.

“Can you just hold my wrists?” She does, tugging both his arms back with her strong grip, and that helps. He’s not falling anymore. He also can’t touch himself, which doesn’t achieve relief. 

“I can’t hold both your wrists with one of my hands,” Jyn says after a minute, so she understands the problem. 

“Something other than metal cuffs.” 

“All right,” she says, and she takes off her light scarf and ties it around his wrists. He could probably break it if he pulled with all his strength, but maybe he won’t have to. She sounds like she’s in practical problem-solving mode, and it’s easy to trust her when she sounds like that. “The blaster, good or bad?”

“Yes. Both.” He strains against the fabric, his hips jerking. Everything he can think of right now is both, or else won’t do anything for him at all.

“What about this?” Jyn says, and draws a pocket knife. 

“Yes. I think so.” She presses the tip into the hollow of his throat, and it’s abruptly possible for him to be still. He feels as if his entire attention is focused on the tip of the blade and its light sting. Jyn has him by the collar with her other hand, which he’s distantly aware is intended to keep him from impaling himself on the blade if he thrashes forward. 

“Don’t move,” she says, and he closes his eyes. The tip of the blade traces a prickling path up his neck, and then she’s holding the edge of the knife to his throat. 

And he knows that she won’t use it. The knife blade is hard against his throat, demanding his attention, but he truly believes she isn’t going to cut him. He breathes into the hard sting of the metal, her arms around him from behind, steadying him. It feels safe enough for him to breathe, and dangerous enough for him to roll his hips hungrily, trying to get some kind of friction.

“Cassian,” she says, and her breath is hot against his throat. She grinds against him, her hips thrusting with increasing urgency. “I’d like to fuck you this way, but I don’t have the right equipment with me,” she says breathlessly. 

They've done that before, and he can vividly imagine it now, the hard slide in and out, the way her breath would catch every time she ground the base of the strap-on against her clit. Being fucked right now would be good, and bad, but mostly good, something hard enough to make his body do what he needs it to do. 

Instead he feels the pressure of the blade withdraw, and Jyn comes around to face him while he’s trying to decide whether he misses it. She kneels in front of him and unfastens his trousers. Her hand on his cock is firm, and he arches up into the touch. That’s working, enough to get him relief for the way he’s keyed up. He nods to show that he approves of this practical solution. 

Then she lets go, and before he can protest, she undoes her own trousers and strips out of everything but her shirt. She straddles his lap, and he can’t really stop her with his hands bound behind him. She slides down onto him, and he wants this. He wants her to move. 

She moves, fucking him, riding him while he can’t do anything about it. There’s nothing in the world but the sensation of her riding him, the wet friction against his cock. He wants her to do this. He wants to come. He wants – 

He’s almost there, and he makes some kind of noise, and turns his face away, and her hand is on his face, just the lightest pressure of her fingertips against the bruises, making him face her. She presses her own fingers against her clit, rubbing herself ruthlessly, and when he feels her tightening around him he comes in a racking spasm that feels like it won’t ever stop. For a moment, the world goes gray. 

Then she reaches behind him to cut the scarf with one swift flick of her knife, freeing his hands. “Here,” she says, and her arms are around him. She pulls him down, and somehow his head is in her lap. He curls up with his knees to his chest, breathing in ragged sobs. That won’t stop either, and she strokes his hair until finally his breathing comes easier, like he’s burned everything that hurt out of himself for a while.

“You’re done with this,” she says, her hand in his hair. 

“I can’t stop,” Cassian says, because there’s nothing he gets to choose not to give for the cause. He belongs to the Alliance, body and soul, even if there is still some rebellious part of him that would rather belong to her, or—even more treacherously—to himself.

Her fingers rake his hair. “If I make them stop you, will you hate me for it?” 

He should tell her yes. “Probably not,” he admits. 

“So,” she says, as if that’s settled it.

And maybe it has, but if it hasn’t, at least there’s this, her stroking his hair while he breathes, his head pillowed on her thigh. He ought to get up, but he can’t remember the reasons why he has to, right now, so he stays where he’s come to rest, and lets her fingers brush across his temple like a kiss.


End file.
